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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987262">vanish</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker'>ficfucker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>sk dogtruth [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Last Podcast on The Left (Podcast) RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Violence, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Not Beta Read</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:41:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,458</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987262</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>ben and marcus bag their first kill.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ben Kissel/Marcus Parks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>sk dogtruth [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810639</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>vanish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>mmm if you're a lpotl fan this shouldn't be too heavy, not gold star by any means, but of course, take note of the tags</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The unnamed man’s body is like a bag of cement. The red seeping under him, from him, still spreads in a wavy blossom.</p><p>Marcus is breathing heavily through his mouth. In his mind: rewind, press play. Reels of footage flickering through despite them only having occurred seconds before.</p><p><em>Ben’s hand on the handle of the Buck Knife. The gleam of the blade when he turned it around, poised like a stinger. The wet sound it made as he drove it into the unnamed man until hilt and flesh touched</em>.</p><p>Rewind, press play.</p><p>
  <em>The tear of skin which spilled ropes of purple and pink and red guts out like streaming confetti. Ben’s arm drawn wide to push Marcus back.</em>
</p><p>“Here,” Ben says. He uncaps a crumbled water bottle and pours it over Marcus’ hands, freckled with the spray of blood Ben was trying to shield him from.</p><p>Marcus has an erection. He scrubs his hands together and the red races down, spatters the dirt in diluted puddles. Ben empties the bottle then crushes it down, shoves it into the left inside pocket of his jacket.</p><p>"We uh. We good?" Ben asks in a hush.</p><p>Rewind, rewind, rewind.</p><p>
  <em>Marcus coiled like a snake in Ben's lap at the bar. Ben feeding him french fries. Their eyes meeting, spark-bright with mutual intention, when the man entered and sat alone. The drive out to nowhere, Marcus shriek-singing along to CCR.</em>
</p><p>"Yeah. Yeah, man, I'm good." Marcus wets his lips, is rewarded with the copper tang of blood.</p><p>Ben opens the trunk and gets out an old t-shirt to use as a rag and starts to wipe down the car. Penny-sized spatter is smeared until it fades to nothing.</p><p>He inspects the window. It's a surprise there isn't even the hint of cracking. Blood streaks in all directions like the burst of a firework. Ben takes extra care on that particular area.</p><p>"Babe?"</p><p>"Mm?"</p><p>"Get the anti-freeze, too?"</p><p>Ben hefts up the jug and passes it to Marcus who uncaps it. He steps forward and dumps it in thick splashes over the body. Inside the jug is Vanish: Oxi Action laundry detergent.</p><p>Marcus has done his research.</p><p>The air smells tangy. The air smells surgically sweet.</p><p>Marcus knows standard bleach does not properly destroy DNA and blood evidence. Any product that creates oxygen bubbles, however, will deteriorate hemoglobin beyond scientific recognition. Eats away at it like locusts.</p><p>Removing the blood of a dead man isn't so much the issue here. The detergent should, in theory, help wash away fingerprints. It will also aid the natural process of decomposition.</p><p>If remains are not found soon, there's the chance the unnamed man will be too badly decomposed to identify by sight.</p><p>Marcus caps the clear plastic jug. He needs to save some Vanish for cleaning their clothes, scrubbing the car interior.</p><p>Ben is still rubbing at the car when Marcus steps over to him. He places the jug in the trunk. He inches closer to Ben with large, catty eyes.</p><p>Ben knows that look well. He pauses his cleaning and dips down, kisses Marcus hard and heavy, enjoys the way Marcus sags below him.</p>
<hr/><p>They return to the hotel without getting pulled over.</p><p>Tomorrow, after they clean the car fully, they'll abandon it somewhere. Then they'll find some other vehicle and trade off some plates and be set to drive in whatever direction their hearts desire.</p><p>Marcus flicks on the single hazy bulb. He pays special attention to use the black plastic trash bag in his hand as a glove. . He says, "Careful what you touch, man. We should scrub this place down, too."</p><p>Ben hums and closes the door with his bare foot.</p><p>During the ride home, they stopped by the beach. They filled their socks with pebbles, tied them off, shoved them into their shoes, and threw the shoes into the ocean as far as Ben's arm could carry them.</p><p>They got lucky. No one was around the pier they chose.</p><p>Marcus undoes his fly and just that action has him stiffening in his boxers. "C'mon, get yours off, too," he says, looking up at Ben.</p><p>"Okay, Mr. Pushy," Ben kids, smiling. He dances out of his pants and slumps them into the bag Marcus is holding out. Ben still has little flecks of blood over his face, dried brown, small as freckles.</p><p>Marcus wants to kiss them away, but doesn't. He strips from his shirt, tosses that in the bag as well.</p><p>"Gonna shower. Don't touch too much shit."</p><p>Marcus slips into the postage-stamp bathroom. He leaves the door open. He cranks the heat as high as it will go. Steps under, bows his head so his hair gets wet first. He's achingly hard.</p><p>He shows restraint by soaping down first.</p><p>His jerking off is frantic and sloppy. He leans his head to the cool tile and gapes his mouth like a knife wound. Something wriggles around inside him, wants to jump right out of his skin.</p><p>Rewind, press play.</p><p>
  <em>The shock melting over Ben's face. The immediate firecracker of anger as he pushed Marcus aside, crowded the unnamed man. The absolute domination in those actions, in those expressions. Ben going to protect Marcus as soon as the unnamed man so much as raised a fist.</em>
</p><p>Marcus chokes on an undignified sound. It breaks into a laugh and he smiles, strokes himself harder. His hair hangs around his face in a dark curtain.</p><p>"That worked up?" Ben asks from the doorway.</p><p>"Listen," Marcus says from under the thunder of the water. "I don't think you understand how fuckin' <em>big</em> you are, man. I’ve been dreamin’ of this for a <em>lonnng</em> time now.”</p><p>Ben laughs at that. He knows what it means. Part of him wants to ask for elaboration, for his own pleasure, if anything. He can see Marcus' shadow from where he stands, hand dropped down between his thighs. "You can jerk off in the bed, I need to get in more than you do."</p><p>"Tell me what to do <em>one</em> more time, darlin'," Marcus coos. It's half between joking, half serious. It's a gamble on whether or not Ben will indulge him.</p><p>Ben groans. He plays along anyway. He deepens his voice. "Get outta the shower or I'll drag you out by your <em>neck</em>."</p><p>Marcus gasps, his naked, wet skin shuddering, and he cums. It feels like worms are trying to withe out of him, like oil is spurting from his body in thick, erratic squiggles. Like something physically breaking the barrier and leaping out. His head falls against the tile again, making a tiny thud. "Christ, Ben… Jesus creepin' Christ…"</p><p>"You're sick."</p><p>Marcus scrubs down one last time, over his arms and legs, less than a half minute. He squeaks the water off. He peers out, grinning ghoulishly. "Sick? Like, <em>real</em> fucked up, Ben?" He throws a white hotel towel around his waist, continuing, "A real fucko? You gonna <em>punish</em> me, Benjamin? Stick that <em>pretty</em> little knife of yers into me?"</p><p>Ben rolls his eyes and palms the back of Marcus' head as he shoves past. "You know yourself, it ain't little, babe," he mutters.</p><p>From the bed, Marcus chitters with hyena laughter.</p>
<hr/><p>The black trash bag sits on the floor in a heap by the foot of the bed. Marcus smokes a cigarette. He tries to make shapes out of the water stains in the ceiling. Ben lays next to him, dried now, and dressed in a fresh shirt and clean boxers. From the corner radio, White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane plays.</p><p>“Could go back with quicklime," Ben offers.</p><p>Marcus exhales a thick wrap of smoke, watches it dance slowly to the ceiling. “Have to be careful returning."</p><p>"Mm. Pray he has no samples on record."</p><p>Ben says something about going to Utah, but Marcus isn’t listening.</p><p>He’s thinking about what they’ve done.</p><p>Rewind, press play.</p><p>
  <em>The way Ben’s knuckles had bulged white when he grabbed the man by the throat, smashed his nose into the door of the car. The crunch pursued by a scream pursued by ringing silence.</em>
</p><p>Marcus has an erection again. It tents his shorts comically.</p><p>“Are you listening?”</p><p>Marcus lolls his head over to look at Ben, puffs his cigarette. He sits up. Puts it out in the clear glass ashtray on the corner table with the other crooked butts smudged into it. Marcus flops back down onto the mattress. A spring squeaks.</p><p>“Make love to me, Benjamin,” he says flatly.</p><p>Ben rolls over in the bed and presses his weight to Marcus. He's warm and excitingly heavy. Marcus takes him by the wrist, leads his palm up to his own throat, and says, curling into a Playboy smile, “Choke me.”</p><p>Ben does.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>:o)  legit just wanted to write super indulgent sk au</p><p>talk to me on tmblr @ficfucker</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
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        A [Restricted Work] by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourcheeks/pseuds/sourcheeks">sourcheeks</a>
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